A Little Too Late
by Foreign Nebula
Summary: "Out of all the stupid things that she had ever done in her life (stepping into the TARDIS not included), this one had to take the cake". Prompt!fic drabble from tumblr: Clara gets assaulted. Tag to Cold War.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Doctor Who, the franchise belongs to the BBC.

**A LITTLE TOO LATE : 1/4**

Out of all the stupid things that she had ever done in her life (stepping into the TARDIS not included), this one had to take the cake. Sure, it had seemed like a good idea at the time: go and help out in the kitchen, be friendly with some of the soldiers…

That had literally gone flying out the window when she found herself locked in the mess-hall with two sailors who eyed her like a piece of meat.

Presently, she was fending them off as well as she could, the bleeding scratch-marks on one of the sailors faces attesting to that face, but she knew that she couldn't last for very much longer against them. Her only hope of getting out of the situation was to somehow get to the doors of the mess hall or even the kitchen and trying to unlock it before the sailors got to her.

"We won't hurt you too bad," the sailor that she hadn't attacked yet, sneered, his dark eyes leering over her body openly.

"Says you," the other replied, glaring at her menacingly as he circled around the long table that was in between him and Clara, "I need to pay you back for this," he said, pointing angrily to the bloody scratches on his face.

Clara ignored them, her eyes making sure to track both of the soldiers movements lest any of them make any sudden moves. She licked her lips, feeling her heart thundering in her chest and her sweat turning icy on her skin as she realised the seriousness of her situation.

The scratched sailor suddenly made a move, leaping over the table and lunging down for her while his friend bolted around the side. Reacting on instinct, Clara duct down and threw herself forwards, sliding underneath the table and rolling out to the other side. Without thinking, she jumped to her feet and bolted for the door.

Slamming into the metal, Clara grabbed hold of the wheel and turned it, knowing that if it hadn't of been for the adrenaline then she never would have been able to spin and therefore unlock the door. Hearing the men cursing her from behind, she yanked on the door and sprinted around, gasping in shock when she ran into another sailor who had been standing on the other side. She looked up at him and felt her heart sinking into her stomach, her eyes widening with the fear that she refused to show earlier.

"Looks like I'm late to the party," the blonde in front of her grinned, and it sent shivers down her spine.

"Actually, Sven, you're just in time."

A pair of hands grabbed her upper arms roughly and Clara could only scream.

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	2. Chapter 2

**A LITTLE TOO LATE - 2/4**

He had been so engrossed in his tinkering that he almost missed the scream entirely, only managing to catch the final echo of terror as the sound dispersed into nothingness. Straightening up, the Doctor looked about him, curious to see if anyone else had heard the sound, but the other soldiers that were manning their stations continued on with their work, oblivious to his uneasiness.

Shrugging his shoulders, he too, was about to return to his work when the realisation dawned on him, and he was cursing himself in every known language he could think of.

There was only one person on this entire submarine that would have the vocal range to hit those notes, the biology of her vocal cords allowing her do so. That person was also supposed to be safe, ensconced in the Captain's quarters or working alongside the Captain in the bridge.

Gripping his sonic screwdriver that he had been using to scan a broken piece of equipment, he turned and ran out of the room, his face a mirroring the fury that he felt. Even though the scream that he had heard was only but a faint echo, he could tell by the pitch that it was sheer terror that had driven Clara to scream out like she had.

His stomach bottomed out as his mind flew through a million scenarios that could be happening right now to his latest Companion, each one getting more extravagant than the last, but the one that his mind stuttered to a halt on made him want to be violently sick. It was the only logical conclusion really, but something that he would never wish to happen to anyone at all. It was sickening even thinking about, but he knew, _he knew_ that if he didn't do something soon, then he would be too late to pick up the pieces.

Almost flying down corridor after corridor, the Doctor recalibrated his sonic to pick up Clara's DNA signature, mentally jumping for joy when he realised that he was close to her position…

He turned the corner and skidded to a halt, his eyes falling to the Captain and several men who were trying to get the door to the mess hall open. Hurrying up to them, the Doctor pushed the seaman and Captain out of the way, his anger and fury fueling his actions.

Once they were out of the way, he pointed the sonic at the door and pressed a button on the side, watching as the wheel spun anticlockwise and unlocked itself. Without hesitation, the Doctor reached forward and yanked open the hatch door, his eyes scanning the room once the door was opened wide enough.

There, in the centre of the room, pinned down to the table by two sailors , was Clara, her mouth covered by a meaty hand and her eyes tightly closed as tears stained her cheeks. Her dress was ripped, the skirt pooled up at her waist with a third seaman standing between her spread legs in the middle of undoing his trousers.

Several seconds passed that way, the sailors staring dumbfounded at the Doctor, and the Doctor staring at the sailors while Clara lay on the table, whimpering and crying in fear.

And then the very air seemed to shift, the temperature seeming to be sucked out of the room as the Doctor stepped fully into the mess hall. But it wasn't the Doctor that had entered the room, no, it was something more than that, something primal and dangerous.

The Doctor wasn't the Doctor anymore.

He was the Oncoming Storm.


	3. Chapter 3

**A Little Too Late - 3/4**

The grip that he had on her was too tight, he knew that, but for the life of him he couldn't seem to let his clenched hands ease their hold of her. It was almost as if he was afraid that if he stopped touching her, holding her, that something terrible would befall the precious burden he carried.

Something almost did.

He ignored that dark little voice, the sneering shadow that always looked over his shoulder and criticized everything that he ever did. The voice was linked to that part of him that was locked away, the shadow that was never meant to see the light of day…

Except that he had let it out, unleashed the storm of his other side upon the unwary, yet despicable men that would…

He knew that he should be feeling something, anything at all. Even the anger that had caused him to see everything in a vision of red would have been better than the utter numbness that he felt then, glancing down at the trembling woman in his arms.

Oh, he had terrified her, he knew that very well when she had cowered away from him after he had finished dealing with those men… No, not men, cowards. Her face had been paler than snow and her entire body shook with the force of her silent sobs.

His Impossible Girl was traumatized and he didn't know what to do.

Captain Zhukov was silent as he walked stiffly ahead of them, his eyes darting back to the hunched figure of the Doctor as they walked through the seemingly abandoned walkways of the submarine. The man wasn't stupid; he knew the second that the Time Lord and his companion had seemingly appeared out of thin air that the man was a force to be reckoned with – he hadn't gotten far in his naval career by sucking up to the bureaucrats. The Doctor might have acted like a child at times (more often than not reminding him of his nephew), but it was his eyes that gave away the old soul that housed his body. The Captain wasn't an idiot, he knew that the Doctor had seen some horrible, traumatizing things in his long existence, but what had occurred in the mess hall…

He shook his head, glancing a furtive glance over his shoulder as they arrived at his sleeping quarters. It was a perk – being the Captain and getting his own room – that he was very thankful for now. He stopped and stood aside, letting the Doctor into the room with Clara still wrapped in his arms, her form hidden by the tweed coat the Time Lord had bundled her up in. Captain Zhukov stood in the threshold of the room awkwardly before shifting and tilting his head. "The men will be dealt with by our standards, Doctor," he said after clearing his throat. He stood up straighter, his mind flashing back to what he had witnessed back in the mess hall and internally shivering.

After the Doctor had managed to get the door open, they had all stood in shock at what they had seen before them. Clara, pinned down to the table, helpless to stop the situation from continuing on, with three men standing around her with wicked sneers frozen on their faces.

The scene had threatened to turn his stomach. His parents had raised him to respect women, and he knew that the men committing such a heinous crime in front of him were raised with those morals as well, so when the anger surfaced, he had taken a step forwards only to stop in shock when the Doctor all but ran across the room and tackled the sailor standing between Clara's legs.

What had happened next sent a chill down his spine.

The Doctor had stood up, his face the epitome of fury as he delivered a brutal kick to the sailor's side, the sickening crunch of bone echoing around the metal room followed by the fallen man's screams.

The other sailors had let go of Clara, running to attack the Doctor, when the man himself had pulled out the strange screwdriver from the inside of his tweed coat and pointed it at them, the tip glowing eerily red.

"You will all pay for what you have done to her," the Doctor said in a voice colder than ice. His jaw had kept clenching and unclenching, the force of his anger causing his whole body to tense up and shake slightly.

The sailors had ignored his warning, and kept advancing upon him. It was then that Zhukov decided to intervene. "Take one more step towards the Doctor or Miss Oswald, and you will never see the light of day from your prison cell again!"

One sailor, Aristov openly scoffed. He took a step forwards, the Captain about to issue orders for his arrest when the sailor stopped dead in his tracks, his face paling of all colour and his hands flying to his head, clutching in soundless agony.

"What you are experiencing now is sonic energy vibrating at a pitch so high it is slowly melting your brain," the Doctor said darkly, his eyes burning coal of vengeance, "It is one of the most painful experiences any living creature with a brain will ever experience, and always results in death. So tell me why I should spare you, for hurting Clara the way you did."

Aristov continued to gape, his face seeming to pale further as strange sounds started to gurgle from his parted lips. The sailor beside him looked terrified, his blue eyes widening in fear as he backed away from the mad man.

"And you," the Doctor hissed, turning his attention now to the other sailor backing away from him, "don't think I'm letting you go-"

"Doctor?"

The whole room had seemed to go to a standstill, all eyes shooting over to the fragile-looking woman as she sat in the middle of the table, clutching the remains of her torn dress to make herself look presentable. Her eyes were impossibly wide in her face, two dark pools of glistening tears and terror staring at the actions of the man in front of her. Her bottom lip had trembled, looking puckered and bloody from the split in her lip that Aristov's meaty hand had hidden when they had first entered the room.

"Clara?" the Doctor himself looked as if someone had physically punched him in the gut. His arm holding the screwdriver on Aristov dropped, making the sailor sink to his knees as his hands dropped to his sides, his eyes staring vacantly off into space. Beside him, his crew mate also sank to his knees, the puddle of urine further staining his soiled pants.

The Doctor was at Clara's side within seconds, his arms reaching out for her only to recoil when the woman gave a startled squeak and moved backwards, ducking her face away in shame. He stared at her in shock, his eyes open windows to his tumultuous soul. "Oh Clara," he had whispered, his arms falling to his sides uselessly.

Shaking his head at the scene in front of him, Zhukov turned to see several of his sailor behind him, no probably attracted by the sound of screaming. "Sailor," he barked to a young man off to his right, "Prepare the brig for three prisoners."  
The sailor looked startled but nodded slowly, his gaze darting to the three fallen sailors and then to the Doctor and back. He shook himself and gave a hasty salute before darting out of the room. Zhukov then turned to his other sailors and started to issue them orders: tie the men up, clean up the room, inform Moscow that there had been an incident; meanwhile he kept an eye on what was happening with the Doctor and Miss Clara.

By that point, Miss Clara had calmed down only marginally – enough so that the Doctor had taken off his coat and given it to her to mask her state of undress – and was leaning against the man's chest, her covered shoulders visibly shaking.  
It was the Doctor that really shocked Zhukov though. The man was clutching Miss Clara like a life-line, his face all but buried in her hair. His knuckles were white as they held her shoulders, his own shoulders shaking as well, but from the rage that he undoubtably still felt.

The events that followed were a whirlwind of movement, the three sailors were taken away with little fuss (although the one that the Doctor had kicked – Sailor Sven Denisov – had to be taken to the infirmary) and the Doctor had picked up Miss Oswald.

Zhukov knew that they needed some time alone, and so offered up his quarters for them to use, to which the Doctor had only just nodded his head and followed quietly.

And all of this had happened in less than the span of twenty minutes.

Now, Zhukov stared at the Doctor, watching as he placed Miss Clara carefully on the bed, careful not to jolt her. He was shocked that she was asleep, but then again, he realised that it was probably for the better.

"I know that the men will be dealt with," the Doctor said quietly, his gaze still on the woman lying in the bed, "I just wish that my actions had been different."

Blinking in shock, Zhukov turned to look at the man properly, slightly taken aback at the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. Swallowing, he stood up, calling on all of the years of service that he done. "You said before the Ice Warrior could tell a soldier from a civilian. From one soldier to another, Doctor, you did what any man would to for the woman he loves."

The Doctor's head whipped up to stare at him, his eyes fighting between his anger and then his denial. "I'm not in love with Clara," he spat, and then frowned, "No, that was wrong." He shook his head, slumping into the chair that was next to the bed. "I care for Clara a great deal, yes, but I'm not in love with her."

"And yet you acted like a man out for revenge." Zhukov added, watching as the man buried his head in his hands and groaned. "Whether you acknowledge it or not is up to you, but had I been in your place," he stopped, waiting for the Doctor to look up at him. When he did he continued, "I would have done exactly the same thing that you did."

The Doctor stared at Zhukov and then to Clara, a frown marring his face. "Regardless, my actions were horrific. I never should have – "

"Whether they were right or wrong doesn't matter now. What is done is done, and now you face the consequences." Zhukov stated, his face stern. "Those men were the worst of this crew, and I knew that. I just regret to have done something about them before."

The Doctor shook his head. "You couldn't have known we would arrive, Captain," he said, looking up at him, "Don't blame yourself for their actions."

A small grin appeared on Zhukov's face. "Then you should stop blaming yourself as well, Doctor."

The Doctor was silent as he sat back in the chair, his eyes staring off into the distance, his mind a whirl of memories. "How can I stop blaming myself, when the actions that I have done could cause the one woman to pull me out from my own darkness to run away from me?"

Sadly, Zhukov didn't have the answer for him.


End file.
